'Ah, yes, come in, Mr Lawford,' he drawled; 'I was beginning to be afraid you were not coming.'

Lawford laid hat and walking-stick on an oak bench, and followed his churchyard companion up a slightly inclined corridor and a staircase into a high room, covered far up the yellowish walls with old books on shelves and in cases, between which hung in little black frames, mezzo tints, etchings, and antiquated maps. A large table stood a few paces from the deep alcove of the window, which was surrounded by a low, faded, green seat, and was screened from the sunshine by wooden shutters. And here the tranquil surge of falling water shook incessantly on the air, for the three lower casements stood open to the fading sunset. On a smaller table were spread cups, old earthenware dishes of fruit, and a big bowl of damask roses.

'Please sit down; I shan't be a moment; I am not sure that my sister is in; but if so, I will tell her we are ready for tea.' Left to himself in this quiet, strange old room, Lawford forgot for a while everything else, he was for the moment so taken up with his surroundings.

What seized on his fancy and strangely affected his mind was this incessant changing roar of falling water. It must be the Widder, he said to himself, flowing close to the walls. But not until he had had the boldness to lean head and shoulders out of the nearest window did he fully realize how close indeed the Widder was. It came sweeping dark and deep and begreened and full with the early autumnal rains, actually against the lower walls of the house itself, and in the middle suddenly swerved in a black, smooth arch, and tumbled headlong into a great pool, nodding with tall slender water-weeds, and charged in its bubbled blackness here and there with the last crimson of the setting sun. To the left of the house, where the waters floated free again, stood vast, still trees above the clustering rushes; and in glimpses between their spreading boughs lay the far-stretching countryside, now dimmed with the first mists of approaching evening. So absorbed he became as he stood leaning over the wooden sill above the falling water, that eye and ear became enslaved by the roar and stillness. And in the faint atmosphere of age that seemed like a veil to hang about the odd old house and these prodigious branches, he fell into a kind of waking dream.

When at last he did draw back into the room it was perceptibly darker, and a thin keen shaft of recollection struck across his mind—the recollection of what he was, and of how he came to be there, his reasons for coming and of that dark indefinable presence which like a raven had begun to build its dwelling in his mind. He sat on, his eyes restlessly wandering, his face leaning on his hands; and in a while the door opened and Herbert returned, carrying an old crimson and green teapot and a dish of hot cakes.

'They're all out,' he said; 'sister, Sallie, and boy; but these were in the oven, so we won't wait. I hope you haven't been very much bored.'

Lawford dropped his hands from his face and smiled. 'I have been looking at the water,' he said.

'My sister's favorite occupation; she sits for hours and hours, with not even a book for an apology, staring down into the black old roaring pot. It has a sort of hypnotic effect after a time. And you'd be surprised how quickly one gets used to the noise. To me it's even less distracting than sheer silence. You don't know, after all, what on earth sheer silence means—even at Widderstone. But one can just realize a water-nymph. They chatter; but, thank Heaven, it's not articulate.' He handed Lawford a cup with a certain niceness and self-consciousness, lifting his eyebrows slightly as he turned.

Lawford found himself listening out of a peculiar stillness of mind to the voice of this suave and rather inscrutable acquaintance. 'The curious thing is, do you know,' he began rather nervously, 'that though I must have passed your gate at least twice in the last few months, I have never noticed it before, never even caught the sound of the water.'

'No, that's the best of it; nobody ever does. We are just buried alive. We have lived here for years, and scarcely know a soul—not even our own, perhaps. Why on earth should one? Acquaintances, after all, are little else than a bad habit.'

'But then, what about me?' said Lawford.

'But that's just it,' said Herbert. 'I said ACQUAINTANCES; that's just exactly what I'm going to prove—what very old friends we are. You've no idea! It really is rather queer.' He took up his cup and sauntered over to the window.

Lawford eyed him vacantly for a moment, and, following rather his own curious thoughts than seeking any light on this somewhat vague explanation, again broke the silence. 'It's odd, I suppose, but this house affects me much in the same way as Widderstone does. I'm not particularly fanciful—at least, I used not to be. But sitting here I seem, I hope it isn't a very frantic remark, it seems as though, if only my ears would let me, I should hear—well, voices. It's just what you said about the silence. I suppose it's the age of the place; it IS very old?'

'Pretty old, I suppose; it's worm-eaten and rat-eaten and tindery enough in all conscience; and the damp doesn't exactly foster it. It's a queer old shanty. There are two or three accounts of it in some old local stuff I have. And of course there's a ghost.'

'A ghost?' echoed Lawford, looking up.



CHAPTER TWELVE

What's in a name?' laughed Herbert. 'But it really is a queer show-up of human oddity. A fellow comes in here, searching; that's all.' His back was turned, as he stood staring absently out, sipping his tea between his sentences. 'He comes in—oh, it's a positive fact, for I've seen him myself, just sitting back in my chair here, you know, watching him as one would a tramp in one's orchard.' He cast a candid glance over his shoulder. 'First he looks round, like a prying servant. Then he comes cautiously on—a kind of grizzled, fawn-coloured face, middle-size, with big hands; and then just like some quiet, groping, nocturnal creature, he begins his precious search—shelves, drawers that are not here, cupboards gone years ago, questing and nosing no end, and quite methodically too, until he reaches the window. Then he stops, looks back, narrows his foxy lids, listens—quite perceptibly, you know, a kind of gingerish blur; then he seems to open this corner bookcase here, as if it were a door and goes out along what I suppose might at some time have been an outside gallery or balcony, unless, as I rather fancy, the house extended once beyond these windows. Anyhow, out he goes quite deliberately, treading the air as lightly as Botticelli's angels, until, however far you lean out of the window, you can't follow him any further. And then—and this is the bit that takes one's fancy—when you have contentedly noddled down again to whatever you may have been doing when the wretch appeared, or are sitting in a cold sweat, with bolting eyes awaiting developments, just according to your school of thought, or of nerves, the creature comes back—comes back; and with what looks uncommonly like a lighted candle in his hand. That really is a thrill, I assure you.'

'But you've seen this—you've really seen this yourself?'

'Oh yes, twice,' replied Herbert cheerfully. 'And my sister, quite by haphazard, once saw him from the garden. She was shelling peas one evening for Sallie, and she distinctly saw him shamble out of the window here, and go shuffling along, mid-air, across the roaring washpot down below, turn sharp round the high corner of the house, sheer against the stars, in a kind of frightened hurry. And then, after five minutes' concentrated watching over the shucks, she saw him come shuffling back again—the same distraction, the same nebulous snuff colour, and a candle trailing its smoke behind him as he whisked in home.'

'And then?'

'Ah, then,' said Herbert, lagging along the bookshelves, and scanning the book-backs with eyes partially closed: he turned with lifted teapot, and refilled his visitor's cup; 'then, wherever you are—I mean,' he added, cutting up a little cake into six neat slices, 'wherever the chance inmate of the room happens to be, he comes straight for you, at a quite alarming velocity, and fades, vanishes, melts, or, as it were, silts inside.'

Lawford listened in a curious hush that had suddenly fallen over his mind. '"Fades inside? silts?"—I'm awfully stupid, but what on earth do you mean?' The room had slowly emptied itself of daylight; its own darkness, it seemed, had met that of the narrowing night, and Herbert deliberately lit a cigarette before replying. His clear pale face, with its smooth outline and thin mouth and rather long dark eyes, turned with a kind of serene good-humour towards his questioner.

'Why,' he said, 'I mean frankly just that. Besides, it's Grisel's own phrase; and an old nurse we used to have said much the same. He comes, or IT comes towards you, first just walking, then with a kind of gradually accelerated slide or glide, and sweeps straight into you,' he tapped his chest, 'me, whoever it may be is here. In a kind of panic, I suppose, to hide, or perhaps simply to get back again.'

'Get back where?'

'Be resumed, as it were, via you. You see, I suppose he is compelled to regain his circle, or Purgatory, or Styx, whatever you like to call it, via consciousness. No one present, then no revenant or spook, or astral body, or hallucination: what's in a name? And of course even an hallucination is mind-stuff, and on its own, as it were. What I mean is that the poor devil must have some kind of human personality to get back through in order to make his exit from our sphere of consciousness into his. And naturally, of course to make his entrance too. If like a tenuous smoke he can get in, the probability is that he gets out in precisely the same fashion. For really, if you weren't consciously expecting the customary impact (you actually jerk forward in the act of resistance unresisted), you would not notice his going. I am afraid I must be horribly boring you with all these tangled theories. All I mean is, that if you were really absorbed in what you happened to be doing at the time, the thing might come and go, with your mind for entrance and exit, as it were, without your being conscious of it at all.' There was a longish pause, in which Herbert slowly inhaled and softly breathed out his smoke.

'And what—what is the poor wretch searching FOR? And what—why, what becomes of him when he does go?'

'Ah, there you have me! One merely surmises just as one's temperament or convictions lean. Grisel says it's some poor derelict soul in search of peace—that the poor beggar wants finally to die, in fact, and can't. Sallie smells crime. After all, what is every man?' he talked on; 'a horde of ghosts—like a Chinese nest of boxes—oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front—in our ancestors, back and back, until—'

'"Until?"' Lawford managed to remark.

'Ah, that settles me again. Don't they call it an amoeba? But really I am abjectly ignorant of all that kind of stuff. We are ALL we are, and all in a sense we care to dream we are. And for that matter, anything outlandish, bizarre, is a godsend in this rather stodgy life. It is after all just what the old boy said—it's only the impossible that's credible; whatever credible may mean....'

It seemed to Lawford as if the last remark had wafted him bodily into the presence of his kind, blinking, intensely anxious old friend, Mr Bethany. And what leagues asunder the two men were who had happened on much the same words to express their convictions.

He drew his hand gropingly over his face, half rose, and again seated himself. 'Whatever it may be,' he said, 'the whole thing reminds me, you know—it is in a way so curiously like my own—my own case.'

Herbert sat on, a little drawn up in his chair, quietly smoking. The crash of the falling water, after seeming to increase in volume with the fading of evening, had again died down in the darkness to a low multitudinous tumult as of countless inarticulate, echoing voices.

'"Bizarre," you said; God knows I am.' But Herbert still remained obdurately silent. 'You remember, perhaps,' Lawford faintly began again, 'our talk the other night?'

'Oh, rather,' replied the cordial voice out of the dusk.

'I suppose you thought I was insane?'

'Insane!' There was a genuinely amused astonishment in the echo. 'You were lucidity itself. Besides—well, honestly, if I may venture, I don't put very much truck in what one calls one's sanity: except, of course, as a bond of respectability and a means of livelihood.'

'But did you realise in the least from what I said how I really stand? That I went down into that old shadowy hollow one man, and came back—well—this?'

'I gathered vaguely something like that. I thought at first it was merely an affectation—that what you said was an affectation, I mean—until—well, to be frank, it was the "this" that so immensely interested me. Especially,' he added almost with a touch of gaiety, 'especially the last glimpse. But if it's really not a forbidden question, what precisely was the other? What precise manner of man, I mean, came down into Widderstone?'

'It is my face that is changed, Mr Herbert. If you'll try to understand me—my FACE. What you see now is not what I really am, not what I was. Oh, it is all quite different. I know perfectly well how absurd it must sound. And you won't press me further. But that's the truth: that's what they have done for me.'

It seemed to Lawford as if a remote tiny shout of laughter had been suddenly caught back in the silence that had followed this confession. He peered in vain in the direction of his companion. Even his cigarette revealed no sign of him. 'I know, I know,' he went gropingly on; 'I felt it would sound to you like nothing but frantic incredible nonsense. YOU can't see it. YOU can't feel it. YOU can't hear these hooting voices. It's no use at all blinking the fact; I am simply on the verge, if not over it, of insanity.'

'As to that, Mr Lawford,' came the still voice out of the darkness; 'the very fact of your being able to say so seems to me all but proof positive that you're not. Insanity is on another plane, isn't it? in which one can't compare one's states. As for what you say being credible, take our precious noodle of a spook here! Ninety-nine hundredths of this amiable world of ours would have guffawed the poor creature into imperceptibility ages ago. To such poor credulous creatures as my sister and I he is no more and no less a fact, a personality, an amusing reality than—well, this teacup. Here we are, amazing mysteries both of us in any case; and all round us are scores of books, dealing just with life, pure, candid, and unexpurgated; and there's not a single one among them but reads like a taradiddle. Yet grope between the lines of any autobiography, it's pretty clear what one has got—a feeble, timid, creeping attempt to describe the indescribable. As for what you say your case is, the bizarre—that kind very seldom gets into print at all. In all our make-believe, all our pretence, how, honestly, could it? But there, this is immaterial. The real question is, may I, can I help? What I gather is this: You just trundled down into Widderstone all among the dead men, and—but one moment, I'll light up.'

A light flickered up in the dark. Shading it in his hand from the night air straying through the open window, Herbert lit the two candles that stood upon the little chimneypiece behind Lawford's head. Then sauntering over to the window again, almost as if with an affectation of nonchalance, he drew one of the shutters, and sat down. 'Nothing much struck me,' he went on, leaning back on his hands, 'I mean on Sunday evening, until you said good-bye. It was then that I caught in the moon a distinct glimpse of your face.'

'This,' said Lawford, with a sudden horrible sinking of the heart.

Herbert nodded. 'The fact is, I have a print of it,' he said.

'A print of it?'

'A miserable little dingy engraving.'

'Of this?' Herbert nodded, with eyes fixed. 'Where?'

'That's the nuisance. I searched high and low for it the instant I got home. For the moment it has been mislaid; but it must be somewhere in the house and it will turn up all in good time. It's the frontispiece of one of a queer old hotchpotch of pamphlets, sewn up together by some amateur enthusiast in a marbled paper cover—confessions, travels, trials and so on. All eighteenth century, and all in French.'

'And mine?' said Lawford, gazing stonily across the candlelight.

Herbert, from a head slightly stooping, gazed back in an almost birdlike fashion across the room at his visitor.

'Sabathier's,' he said.

'Sabathier's!'

'A really curious resemblance. Of course, I am speaking only from memory; and perhaps it's not quite so vivid in this light; but still astonishingly clear.'

Lawford sat drawn up, staring at his companion's face in an intense and helpless silence. His mouth opened but no words came.

'Of course,' began Herbert again, 'I don't say there's anything in it—except the—the mere coincidence,' he paused and glanced out of the open casement beside him. 'But there's just one obvious question. Do you happen to know of any strain of French blood in your family?'

Lawford shut his eyes, even memory seemed to be forsaking him at last. 'No,' he said, after a long pause, 'there's a little Dutch, I think, on my mother's side, but no French.'

'No Sabathier, then?' said Herbert, smiling. 'And then there's another question—this change; is it really as complete as you suppose? Has it—please just warn me off if I am in the least intruding—has it been noticed?'

Lawford hesitated. 'Oh, yes,' he said slowly, 'it has been noticed—my wife, a few friends.'

'Do you mind this infernal clatter?' said Herbert, laying his fingers on the open casement.

'No, no. And you think?'

'My dear fellow, I don't think anything. It's all the craziest conjecture. Stranger things even than this have happened. There are dozens here—in print. What are we human beings after all? Clay in the hands of the potter. Our bodies are merely an inheritance, packed tight and corded up. We have practically no control over their main functions. We can't even replace a little finger-nail. And look at the faces of us—what atrocious mockeries most of them are of any kind of image! But we know our bodies change—age, sickness, thought, passion, fatality. It proves they are amazingly plastic. And merely even as a theory it is not in the least untenable that by force of some violent convulsive effort from outside one's body might change. It answers with odd voluntariness to friend or foe, smile or snarl. As for what we call the laws of Nature, they are pure assumptions to-day, and may be nothing better than scrap-iron tomorrow. Good Heavens, Lawford, consider man's abysmal impudence.' He smoked on in silence for a moment. 'You say you fell asleep down there?'

Lawford nodded. Herbert tapped his cigarette on the sill. 'Just following up our ludicrous conjecture, you know,' he remarked musingly, 'it wasn't such a bad opportunity for the poor chap.'

'But surely,' said Lawford, speaking as it were out of a dream of candle-light and reverberating sound and clearest darkness, towards this strange deliberate phantom with the unruffled clear-cut features—'surely then, in that case, he is here now? And yet, on my word of honour, though every friend I ever had in the world should deny it, I am the same. Memory stretches back clear and sound to my childhood. I can see myself with extraordinary lucidity, how I think, my motives and all that; and in spite of these voices that I seem to hear, and this peculiar kind of longing to break away, as it were, just to press on—it is I,—I myself, that am speaking to you now out of this—this mask.'

Herbert glanced reflectively at his companion. 'You mustn't let me tire you,' he said; 'but even on our theory it would not necessarily follow that you yourself would be much affected. It's true this fellow Sabathier really was something of a personality. He had a rather unusual itch for life, for trying on and on to squeeze something out of experience that isn't there; and he seemed never to weary of a magnificent attempt to find in his fellow-creatures, especially in the women he met, what even—if they have it—they cannot give. The little book I wanted to show you is partly autobiographical and really does manage to set the fellow on his feet. Even there he does absolutely take one's imagination. I shall never forget the thrill of picking him up in the Charing Cross Road. You see, I had known the queer old tombstone for years. He's enormously vivid—quite beyond my feebleness to describe, with a kind of French verve and rapture. Unluckily we can't get nearer than two years to his death. I shouldn't mind guessing some last devastating dream swept over him, held him the breath of an instant too long beneath the wave, and he caved in. We know he killed himself; and perhaps lived to regret it ever after.

'After all, what is this precious dying we talk so much about?' Herbert continued after a while, his eyes restlessly wandering from shelf to shelf. 'You remember our talk in the churchyard? We all know that the body fades quick enough when its occupant is gone. Supposing even in the sleep of the living it lies very feebly guarded. And supposing in that state some infernally potent thing outside it, wandering disembodied, just happens on it—like some hungry sexton beetle on the carcase of a mouse. Supposing—I know it's the most outrageous theorising—but supposing all these years of sun and dark, Sabathier's emanation, or whatever you like to call it, horribly restless, by some fatality longing on and on just for life, or even for the face, the voice, of some "impossible she" whom he couldn't get in this muddled world, simply loathing all else; supposing he has been lingering in ambush down beside those poor old dusty bones that had poured out for him such marrowy hospitality—oh, I know it; the dead do. And then, by a chance, one quiet autumn evening, a veritable godsend of a little Miss Muffet comes wandering down under the shade of his immortal cypresses, half asleep, fagged out, depressed in mind and body, perhaps: imagine yourself in his place, and he in yours!' Herbert stood up in his eagerness, his sleek hair shining. 'The one clinching chance of a century! Wouldn't you have made a fight for it? Wouldn't you have risked the raid? I can just conceive it—the amazing struggle in that darkness within a darkness; like some dazed alien bee bursting through the sentinels of a hive; one mad impetuous clutch at victory; then the appalling stirring on the other side; the groping back to a house dismantled, rearranged, not, mind you, disorganised or disintegrated....' He broke off with a smile, as if of apology for his long, fantastic harangue.

Lawford sat listening, his eyes fixed on Herbert's colourless face. There was not a sound else, it seemed, than that slightly drawling scrupulous voice poking its way amid a maze of enticing, baffling thoughts. Herbert turned away with a shrug. 'It's tempting stuff,' he said, choosing another cigarette. 'But anyhow, the poor beggar failed.'

'Failed?'

'Why, surely; if he had succeeded I should not now be talking to a mere imperfect simulacrum, to the outward illusion of a passing likeness to the man, but to Sabathier himself!' His eyes moved slowly round and dwelt for a moment with a dark, quiet scrutiny on his visitor.

'You say a passing likeness; do you MEAN that?'

Herbert smiled indulgently. 'If one CAN mean what is purely a speculation. I am only trying to look at the thing dispassionately, you see. We are so much the slaves of mere repetition. Here is life—yours and mine—a kind of plenum in vacuo. It is only when we begin to play the eavesdropper; when something goes askew; when one of the sentries on the frontier of the unexpected shouts a hoarse "Qui vive?"—it is only then we begin to question; to prick our aldermen and pinch the calves of our kings. Why, who is there can answer to anybody's but his own satisfaction just that one fundamental question—Are we the prisoners, the slaves, the inheritors, the creatures, or the creators of our bodies? Fallen angels or horrific dust? As for identity or likeness or personality, we have only our neighbours' nod for them, and just a fading memory. No, the old fairy tales knew better; and witchcraft's witchcraft to the end of the chapter. Honestly, and just of course on that one theory, Lawford, I can't help thinking that Sabathier's raid only just so far succeeded as to leave his impression in the wax. It doesn't, of course, follow that it will necessarily end there. It might—it may be even now just gradually fading away. It may, you know, need driving out—with whips and scorpions. It might, perhaps, work in.'

Lawford sat cold and still. 'It's no good, no good,' he said, 'I don't understand; I can't follow you. I was always stupid, always bigoted and cocksure. These things have never seemed anything but old women's tales to me. And now I must pay for it. And this Nicholas Sabathier; you say he was a blackguard?'

'Well,' said Herbert with a faint smile, 'that depends on your definition of the word. He wasn't a flunkey, a fool, or a prig, if that's what you mean. He wasn't perhaps on Mrs Grundy's visiting list. He wasn't exactly gregarious. And yet in a sense that kind of temperament is so rare that Sappho, Nelson, and Shelley shared it. To the stodgy, suety world of course it's little else than sheer moonshine, midsummer madness. Naturally, in its own charming and stodgy way the world kept flickering cold water in his direction. Naturally it hissed.... I shall find the book. You shall have the book; oh yes.'

'There's only one more question,' said Lawford in a dull, slow voice, stooping and covering his face with his hands. 'I know it's impossible for you to realise—but to me time seems like that water there, to be heaping up about me. I wait, just as one waits when the conductor of an orchestra lifts his hand and in a moment the whole surge of brass and wood, cymbal and drum will crash out—and sweep me under. I can't tell you Herbert, how it all is, with just these groping stirrings of that mole in my mind's dark. You say it may be this face, working in! God knows. I find it easy to speak to you—this cold, clear sense, you know. The others feel too much, or are afraid, or—Let me think—yes, I was going to ask you a question. But no one can answer it.' He peered darkly, with white face suddenly revealed between his hands. 'What remains now? Where do I come in? What is there left for ME to do?'

And at that moment there sounded, even above the monotonous roar of the water beyond the window—there fell the sound of a light footfall approaching along the corridor.

'Listen,' said Herbert; 'here's my sister coming; we'll ask her.'



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The door opened. Lawford rose, and into the further rays of the candlelight entered a rather slim figure in a light summer gown.

'Just home?' said Herbert.

'We've been for a walk—'

'My sister always forgets everything,' said Herbert, turning to Lawford; 'even tea-time. This is Mr Lawford, Grisel. We've been arguing no end. And we want you to give a decision. It's just this: Supposing if by some impossible trick you had come in now, not the charming familiar sister you are, but shorter, fatter, fair and round-faced, quite different, physically, you know—what would you do?'

'What nonsense you talk, Herbert!'

'Yes, but supposing: a complete transmogrification—by some unimaginable ingression or enchantment, by nibbling a bunch of roses, or whatever you like to call it?'

'Only physically?'

'Well, yes, actually; but potentially, why—that's another matter.'

The dark eyes passed slowly from her brother's face and rested gravely on their visitor's.

'Is he making fun of me?'

Lawford almost imperceptibly shook his head.

'But what a question! And I've had no tea.' She drew her gloves slowly through her hand. 'The thing, of course, isn't possible, I know. But shouldn't I go mad, don't you think?'

Lawford gazed quietly back into the clear, grave, deliberate eyes. 'Suppose, suppose, just for the sake of argument—NOT,' he suggested.

She turned her head and reflected, glancing from one to the other of the pure, steady candle-flames.

'And what was your answer?' she said, looking over her shoulder at her brother.

'My dear child, you know what my answers are like!'

'And yours?'

Lawford took a deep breath, gazing mutely, forlornly, into the lovely untroubled peace of her eyes, and without the least warning tears swept up into his own. With an immense effort he turned, and choking back every sound, beating hack every thought, groped his way towards the square black darkness of the open door.

'I must think, I must think,' he managed to whisper, lifting his hand and steadying himself. He caught over his shoulder the glimpse of a curiously distorted vision, a lifted candle, and a still face gazing after him with infinitely grieved eyes, then found himself groping and stumbling down the steep, uneven staircase into the darkness of the queer old wooden and hushed and lonely house. The night air cold on his face calmed his mind. He turned and held out his hand.

'You'll come again?' Herbert was saying, with a hint of anxiety, even of apology in his voice.

Lawford nodded, with eyes fixed blankly on the candle, and turning once more, made his way slowly down the narrow green-bordered path upon which the stars rained a scattered light so feeble it seemed but as a haze that blurred the darkness. He pushed open the little white wicket and turned his face towards the soundless, leaf-crowned hill. He had advanced hardly a score of steps in the thick dust when almost as if its very silence had struck upon his ear he remembered the black broken grave with its sightless heads that lay beyond the leaves. And fear, vast and menacing, fear such as only children know, broke like a sea of darkness on his heart. He stopped dead—cold, helpless, trembling. And, in the silence he heard a faint cry behind him and light footsteps pursuing him. He turned again. In the thick close gloom beneath the enormous elm-boughs the grey eyes shone clearly visible in the face upturned to him. 'My brother,' she began breathlessly—'the little French book. It was I who—who mislaid it.'

The set, stricken face listened unmoved.

'You are ill. Come back! I am afraid you are very ill.'

'It's not that, not that,' Lawford muttered; 'don't leave me; I am alone. Don't question me,' he said strangely, looking down into her face, clutching her hand; 'only understand that I can't, I can't go on.' He swept a lean arm towards the unseen churchyard. 'I am afraid.'

The cold hand clasped his closer. 'Hush, don't speak! Come back; come back. I am with you, a friend, you see; come back.'

Lawford clutched her hand as a blind man in sudden peril might clutch the hand of a child. He saw nothing clearly; spoke almost without understanding his words.

'Oh, but it's MUST,' he said; 'I MUST go on. You see—why, everything depends on struggling through: the future! But if you only knew—There!' Again his arm swept out, and the lean terrified face turned shuddering from the dark.

'I do know; believe me, believe me! I can guess. See, I am coming with you; we will go together. As if, as if I did not know what it is to be afraid. Oh, believe me; no one is near; we go on; and see! it gradually, gradually lightens. How thankful I am I came.'

She had turned and they were steadily ascending as if pushing their way, battling on through some obstacle of the mind rather than of the senses beneath the star-powdered callous vault of night. And it seemed to Lawford as if, as they pressed on together, some obscure detestable presence as slowly, as doggedly had drawn worsted aside. He could see again the peaceful outspread branches of the trees, the lych-gate standing in clear-cut silhouette against the liquid dusk of the sky. A strange calm stole over his mind. The very meaning and memory of his fear faded out and vanished, as the passed-away clouds of a storm that leave a purer, serener sky.

They stopped and stood together on the brow of the little hill, and Lawford, still trembling from head to foot, looked back across the hushed and lightless countryside. 'It's all gone now,' he said wearily, 'and now there's nothing left. You see, I cannot even ask your forgiveness—and a stranger!'

'Please don't say that—unless—unless—a "pilgrim" too. I think, surely, you must own we did have the best of it that time. Yes—and I don't care WHO may be listening—but we DID win through.'

'What can I say? How shall I explain? How shall I make you understand?'

The clear grey eyes showed not the faintest perturbation. 'But I do; I do indeed, in part; I do understand, ever so faintly.'

'And now I will come back with you.'

They paused in the darkness face to face, the silence of the sky, arched in its vastness above the little hill, the only witness of their triumph.

She turned unquestioningly. And laughing softly almost as children do, the stalking shadows of a twilight wood behind them—they trod in silence back to the house. They said good-bye at the gate, and Lawford started once more for home. He walked slowly, conscious of an almost intolerable weariness, as if his strength had suddenly been wrested away from him. And at some distance beyond the top of the hill he sat down on the bank beside a nettled ditch, and with his book pressed down upon the wayside grass struck a match, and holding it low in the scented, windless air turned slowly the cockled leaf.

Few of them were alike except for the dinginess of the print and the sinister smudge of the portraits. All were sewn roughly together into a mould-stained, marbled cover. He lit a second match, and as he did so glanced as if inquiringly over his shoulder. And a score or so of pages before the end he came at last upon the name he was seeking, and turned the page.

It was a likeness even more striking in its crudeness of ink and line and paper than the most finished of portraits could have been. It repelled, and yet it fascinated him. He had not for a moment doubted Herbert's calm conviction. And yet as he stooped in the grass, closely scrutinising the blurred obscure features, he felt the faintest surprise not so much at the significant resemblance but at his own composure, his own steady, unflinching confrontation with this sinister and intangible adversary. The match burned down to his fingers. It hissed faintly in the grass.

He stuffed the book into his pocket, and stared into the pale dial of his watch. It was a few minutes after eleven. Midnight, then, would just see him in. He rose stiffly and yawned in sheer exhaustion. Then, hesitating, he turned his head and looked back towards the hollow. But a vague foreboding held him back. A sour and vacuous incredulity swept over him. What was the use of all this struggling and vexation. What gain in living on? Once dead his sluggish spirit at least would find its rest. Dust to dust it would indeed be for him. What else, in sober earnest, had he been all his daily stolid life but half dead, scarce conscious, without a living thought, or desire, in head or heart?

And while he was still gloomily debating within himself he had turned towards home, and soon was walking in a kind of reverie, even his extreme tiredness in part forgotten, and only a far-away dogged recollection in his mind that in spite of shame, in spite of all his miserable weakness, the words had been uttered once for all, and in all sincerity, 'We DID win through.'

Yet a desolate and odd air of strangeness seemed to drape his unlighted house as he stood looking up in a kind of furtive communion with its windows. It affected him with that discomforting air of extreme and meaningless novelty that things very familiar sometimes take upon themselves. In this leaden tiredness no impression could be trustworthy. His lids shut of themselves as he softly mounted the steps. It seemed a needlessly wide door that soundlessly admitted him. But however hard he pressed the key his bedroom door remained stubbornly shut until he found that it was already unlocked and he had only to turn the handle. A night-light burned in a little basin on the washstand. The room was hung, as it were, with the stillness of night. And half lying on the bed in her dressing-gown, her head leaning on the rail at the foot, was Alice, just as sleep had overtaken her.

Lawford returned to the door and listened. It seemed he heard a voice talking downstairs, and yet not talking, for it ran on and on in an incessant slightly argumentative monotony that had neither break nor interruption. He closed the door, and stooping laid his hand softly on Alice's narrow, still childish hand that lay half-folded on her knee. Her eyes opened instantly and gazed widely into his face. A slow vacant smile of sleep came and went and her fingers tightened gently over his as again her lids drooped down over the drowsy blue eyes.

'At last, at last, dear,' she said; 'I have been waiting such a time. But we mustn't talk much. Mother is waiting up, reading.'

Faintly through the close-shut door came the sound of that distant expressionless voice monotonously rising and falling.

'Why didn't you tell me, dear?' Alice still sleepily whispered. 'Would I have asked a single question? How could I? Oh, if you had only trusted me!'

'But the change—the change, Alice! You must have seen that. You spoke to me, you did think I was only a stranger; and even when you knew, it was only fear on your face, dearest, and aversion; and you turned to your mother first. Don't think, Alice, that I am...God only knows—I'm not complaining. But truth is best whatever it is. I do feel that. You mustn't be afraid of hurting me, my dear.'

Her very hands seemed to quicken in his as now, with sleep quite gone, the fret of memory returned, and she must reassure both herself and him. 'But you see, dear, mother had told me that you—besides, I did know you at once, really; quite inside, you know, deep down. I know I was perplexed; I didn't understand; but that was all. Why, even when you came up in the dark, and we talked—if you only knew how miserable I had been—though I knew even then there was something different, still I was not a bit afraid. Was I? And shouldn't I have been afraid, horribly afraid, if YOU had not been YOU?' She repressed a little shudder, and clasped his hand more closely. 'Don't let us say anything more about it, she implored him; 'we are just together again, you and I; that is all that matters.' But her words were like brave soldiers who have fought their way through an ambuscade but have left all confidence behind them.

Lawford listened; and that was enough just now—that she still, in spite of doubt, believed in him, and thought and cared for him. He was too tired to have refused the least kindness. He made no answer, but leant his head on the cool, slender fingers in gratitude and peace. And, just as he was, he almost instantly fell asleep. He woke in the darkness to find himself alone. He groped his way heavily to the door and turned the handle. But now it was really locked. Energy failed him. 'I suppose—Sheila...' he muttered.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sheila, calm, alert, reserved, was sitting at the open window when he awoke again. His breakfast tray stood on a little table beside the bed. He raised himself on his elbow and looked at his wife. The morning light shone full on her features as she turned quickly at sound of his stirring.

'You have slept late,' she said, in a low, mellow voice.

'Have I, Sheila? I suppose I was tired out. It is very kind of you to have got everything ready like this.'

'I am afraid, Arthur, I was thinking rather of the maids. I like to inconvenience them as little as possible; in their usual routine, I mean. How are you feeling, do you think, this morning?'

'I—I haven't seen the glass, Sheila.'

She paused to place a little pencil tick at the foot of the page of her butcher's book. 'And did you—did you try?'

'Did I try? Try what?'

'I understood,' she said, turning slowly in her chair, 'you gave me to understand that you went out with the specific intention of trying to regain.... But there, forgive me, Arthur; I think I must be getting a little bit hardened to the position, so far at least as any hope is in my mind of rather amateurish experiments being of much help. I may seem unsympathetic in saying frankly what I feel. But amateurish or no, you are curiously erratic. Why, if you really were the Dr Ferguson whose part you play so admirably you could scarcely spend a more active life.'

'All you mean, Sheila, I suppose, is that I have failed.'

'"Failed" did not enter my mind. I thought, looking at you just now in your clothes on the bed, one might for the moment be deceived into thinking there was a slight—quite the slightest improvement. There was not quite that'—she hovered for the right word—'that tenseness. Whether or not, whether you desired any such change or didn't, I should have supposed in any case it would have been better to act as far as possible like any ordinary person. You were certainly in an extraordinarily sound sleep. I was almost alarmed; until I remembered that it was a little after two when I looked up from reading aloud to keep myself awake and discovered that you had only just come home. I had no fire. You know how easily late hours bring on my headaches; a little thought might possibly have suggested that I should be anxious to hear. But no; it seems I cannot profit by experience, Arthur. And even now you have not answered surely a very natural question. You do not recollect, perhaps, exactly what did happen last night? Did you go in the direction even of Widderstone?'

'Yes, Sheila, I went to Widderstone.'

'It was of course absurd to suppose that sitting on a seat beside the broken-down grave of a suicide would have the slightest effect on one's—one's physical condition; though possibly it might affect one's brain. It would mine; I am at least certain of that. It was your own prescription, however; and it merely occurred to me to inquire whether the actual experience has not brought you round to my own opinion.'

'Yes, I think it has,' Lawford answered calmly. 'But I don't quite see what suicide has got to do with it; unless—You know Widderstone, then, Sheila?'

'I drove there last Saturday afternoon.'

'For prayer or praise?' Although Lawford had not actually raised his head, he became conscious rather of the wonderfully adjusted mass of hair than of the pained dignity in the face that was now closely regarding him.

'I went,' came the rigidly controlled retort, 'simply to test an inconceivable story.'

'And returned?'

'Convinced, Arthur, of its inconceivability. But if you would kindly inform me what precise formula you followed at Widderstone last night, I would tell you why I think the explanation, or rather your first account of the matter, is not an explanation of the facts.'

Lawford shot a rather doglike glance over his toast. 'Danton?' he said.

'Candidly, Arthur, Mr Danton doubts the whole story. Your very conduct—well, it would serve no useful purpose to go into that. Candidly, on the other hand, Mr. Danton did make some extremely helpful suggestions—basing them, of course, on the TRUTH of your account. He has seen a good deal of life; and certainly very mysterious things do occur to quite innocent and well-meaning people without the faintest shadow of warning, and as Mr. Bethany himself said, evil birds do come home to roost, and often out of a clear sky, as it were. But there, every fresh solution that occurs to me only makes the thing more preposterous, more, I was going to say, disreputable—I mean, of course, to the outside world. And we have our duties to perform to them too, I suppose. Why, what can we say? What plausible account of ourselves have we? We shall never be able to look anybody in the face again. I can only—I am compelled to believe that God has been pleased to make this precise visitation upon us—an eye for an eye, I suppose, SOMEWHERE. And to that conviction I shall hold until actual circumstances convince me that it's false. What, however, and this is all that I have to say now, what I cannot understand are your amazing indiscretions.'

'Do you understand your own, Sheila?'

'My indiscretions, Arthur?'

'Well,' said Lawford, 'wasn't it indiscreet, don't you think, to risk divine retribution by marrying me? Shouldn't you have inquired? Wasn't it indiscreet to allow me to remain here in—in my "visitation?" Wasn't it indiscreet to risk the moral stigma this unhappy face of mine must cast on its surroundings? I am not sure whether such a change as this constitutes cruelty.... Oh, what is the use of fretting and babbling on like this?'

'Am I to understand, then, that you refuse positively to discuss this horrible business any more? You are doing your best to drive me away, Arthur; you must see that. Will you be very disappointed if I refuse to go?'

Lawford rose from the bed. 'Listen just this once,' he said, seating himself on the corner of the dressing-table. 'Imagine all this—whatever you like to call it—obliterated. Take this,' he nodded towards the glass, 'entirely for itself, on its own merits, as it were. Let the dead past bury its dead. Which, now, precisely, REALLY do you prefer—him,' he jerked his head in the direction of the dispassionate youthful picture on the wall, 'him or me?'

He was so close to her now that he could see the faintest tremor on the face that had suddenly become grey and still in the thin clear sunshine.

'I own it, I own it,' he went on, slowly; 'the change is more than skin-deep now. One can't go through what I have gone through these last few terrifying days, Sheila, unchanged. They have played the devil with my body; now begins the tampering with my mind. Not even Danton knows how it will end. But shall I tell you why you won't, why you can't answer me that one question—him or me? Shall I tell you?'

Sheila slowly raised her eyes.

'It is because, my dear, you don't care the ghost of a straw for either. That one—he was worn out long ago, and we never knew it. I know it now. Time and the sheer going-on of day by day, without either of us guessing at it, wore that down till it had no more meaning for you or me than any other faded remembrance in this interminable footling with truth that we call life. And this one—the whole abject meaning of it lies simply in the fact that it has pierced down and shown us up. I had no courage. I couldn't see how feeble a hold I had on life—just one's friends' opinions. It was all at second hand. What I want to know now is—leave me out; don't think, or care, or regard my living-on one shadow of an iota—all I ask is, What am I to do for you?' He turned away and stood staring down at the cinders in the fireless grate.

'I answer that mad wicked outburst with one plain question,' said a low, trembling voice; 'did you or did you not go to Widderstone yesterday?'

'I did go.'

'You sat there, just as you said you sat before; and with all your heart and soul strove to regain—yourself?'

Lawford lifted a still, colourless face into the sunlight. 'No,' he said; 'I spent the evening at the house of a friend.'

'Then I say it is infamous. You cast all this on me. You have brought me into contempt and poisoned Alice's whole life. You dream and idle on just as you used to do, without the least care or thought or consideration for others; and go out in this condition—go out absolutely unashamed—to spend the evening at a friend's. Peculiar friends they must be. Why, really, Arthur, you must be mad!'

Lawford paused. Like a flock of sheep streaming helter-skelter before the onset of a wolf were the thoughts that a moment before had seemed so orderly and sober.

'Not mad—possessed,' he said softly.

'And I add this,' cried Sheila, as it were out of a tragic mask, 'somewhere in the past, whether of your own life, or of the lives of those who brought you into the world—the world which you pretend so conveniently to despise—somewhere is hidden some miserable secret. God visits all sins. On you has fallen at last the payment. THAT I believe. You can't run away, any more than a child can run away from the cupboard it has been locked into for a punishment. Who's going to hear you now? You have deliberately refused to make a friend of me. Fight it out alone, then!'

Lawford heard the door close, and the dying away of the sound that had been the unceasing accompaniment of all these later years—the rustling of his wife's skirts, her crisp, authoritative footstep. And he turned towards the flooding sunlight that streamed in on the upturned surface of the looking-glass. No clear decisive thought came into his mind, only a vague recognition that so far as Sheila was concerned this was the end. No regret, no remorse visited him. He was just alone again, that was all—alone, as in reality he had always been alone, without having the sense or power to see or to acknowledge it. All he had said had been the mere flotsam of the moment, and now it stood stark and irrevocable between himself and the past.

He sat down dazed and stupid. Again and again a struggling recollection tried to obtrude itself; again and again he beat it back. And rather for something to distract his attention than for any real interest or enlightenment he might find in its pages, he took out the grimy dog's-eared book that Herbert had given him, and turned slowly over the leaves till he came to Sabathier once more. Snatches of remembrance of their long talk returned to him, but just as that dark, water-haunted house had seemed to banish remembrance and the reality of the room in which he now sat, and of the old familiar life; so now the house, the faces of yesterday seemed in their turn unreal, almost spectral, and the thick print on the smudgy page no more significant than a story one reads and throws away.

But a moment's comparison in the glass of the two faces side by side suddenly sharpened his attention—the resemblance was so oddly arresting, and yet, and yet, so curiously inconclusive. There was then something of the stolid old Saxon left, he thought. Or had it been regained? Which was it? Not merely the complexity of the question, but a half-conscious distaste of attempting to face it, set him reading very slowly and laboriously, for his French was little more than fragmentary recollection, the first few pages of the life of this buried Sabathier. But with a disinclination almost amounting to aversion he made very slow progress. Many of the words were meaningless to him, and every other moment he found himself listening with intense concentration for the least hint of what Sheila was doing, of what was going on in the house beneath him. He had not very long to wait. He was sitting with his head leaning on his hand, the book unheeded beneath the other on the table, when the door opened again behind him, and Sheila entered. She stood for a moment, calm and dignified, looking down on him through her veil.

'Please understand, Arthur, that I am not taking this step in pique, or even in anger. It would serve no purpose to go on like this—this incessant heedlessness and recrimination. There have been mistakes, misconceptions, perhaps, on both sides. To me naturally yours are most conspicuous. That need not, however, blind me to my own.'

She paused in vain for an answer.

'Think the whole thing over candidly and quietly,' she began again in a quiet rapid voice. 'Have you really shown the slightest regard, I won't say for me, or even for Alice, but for just the obvious difficulties and—and proprieties of our position? I have given up as far as I can brooding on and on over the same horrible impossible thoughts. I withdraw unreservedly what I said just now about punishment. Whatever the evidence, it is not even a wife's place to judge like that. You will forgive me that?'

Lawford did not turn his head. 'Of course,' he said, looking rather vacantly out of the window, 'it was only in the heat of the moment, Sheila; though, who knows? it may be true.'

'Well,' she took hold of the great brass knob at the foot of the bed with one gloved hand—'well, I feel it is my duty to withdraw it. Apart from it, I see only too clearly that even though all that has happened in these last few days was in reality nothing but a horrible nightmare, I see that even then what you have said about our married life together can never be recalled. You have told me quite deliberately that for years past your life has been nothing but a pretence—a sham. You implied that mine had been too. Honestly, I was not aware of it, Arthur. But supposing all that has happened to you had been merely what might happen at any moment to anybody, some actual defacement (you will forgive me suggesting such a horrible thing)—why, if what you say is true, even in that case my sympathy would have been only a continual fret and annoyance to you. And this—this change, I own, is infinitely harder to bear. It would be an outrage on common sense and on all that we hold seemly and—and sacred in life, even in some trumpery story. You do, you must see all that, Arthur?'

'Oh yes,' said Lawford, narrowing his eyes to pierce through the sunlight, 'I see all that.'

'Then we need not go over it all again. Whatever others may say, or think, I shall still, at least so long as nothing occurs to the contrary, keep firmly to my present convictions. Mr Bethany has assured me repeatedly that he has no—no misgivings; that he understands. And even if I still doubted, which I don't, Arthur, though it would be rather trying to have to accept one's husband at second-hand, as it were, I should have to be satisfied. I dare say even such an unheard-of thing as what we are discussing now, or something equally ghastly, does occur occasionally. In foreign countries, perhaps. I have not studied such things enough to say. We were all very much restricted in our reading as children, and I honestly think, not unwisely. It is enough for the present to repeat that I do believe, and that whatever may happen—and I know absolutely nothing about the procedure in such cases—but whatever may happen, I shall still be loyal; I shall always have your interests at heart.' Her words faltered and she turned her head away. 'You did love me once, Arthur, I can't forget that.' The contralto voice trembled ever so little, and the gloved hand smoothed gently the brass knob beneath.

'If,' said Lawford, resting his face on his hands, and curiously watching the while his moving reflection in the looking-glass before him—'if I said I still loved you, what then?

'But you have already denied it, Arthur.'

'Yes; but if I said that that too was said only in haste, that brooding over the trouble this—this metamorphosis was bringing on us all had driven me almost beyond endurance: supposing that I withdrew all that, and instead said now that I do still love you, just as I—' he turned a little, and turned back again, 'like this?'

Sheila paused. 'Could ANY woman answer such a question?' she almost sighed at last.

'Yes, but,' Lawford pressed on, in a voice almost naive and stubborn as a child's, 'If I tried to—to make you? I did once, Sheila.'

'I can't, I can't conceive such a position. Surely that alone is almost as frantic as it is heartless! Is it, is it even right?'

'Well, I have not actually asked it. I own,' he added moodily, almost under his breath, 'it would be—dangerous.... But there, Sheila, this poor old mask of mine is wearing out. I am somehow convinced of that. What will be left, God only knows. You were saying—' He rose abruptly. 'Please, please sit down,' he said; 'I did not notice you were standing.'

'I shall not keep you a moment,' she answered hurriedly; 'I will sit here. The truth is, Arthur,' she began again almost solemnly, 'apart from all sentiment and—and good intentions, my presence here only harasses you and keeps you back. I am not so bound up in myself that I cannot realise THAT. The consequence is that after calmly—and I hope considerately—thinking the whole thing over, I have come to the conclusion that it would arouse very little comment, the least possible perhaps in the circumstances, if I just went away for a few days. You are not in any sense ill. In fact, I have never known you so—so robust, so energetic. You will be alone: Mr Bethany, perhaps.... You could go out and come in just as you pleased. Possibly,' Sheila smiled frankly beneath her veil, 'even this Dr Ferguson you have invented will be a help. It's only the servants that remain to be considered.'

'I should prefer to be quite alone.'

'Then do not worry about THEM. I can easily explain. And if you would not mind letting her in, Mrs Gull can come in every other day or so just to keep things in order. She's entirely trustworthy and discreet. Or perhaps, if you would prefer—'

'Mrs Gull will do nicely, Sheila. It's very good of you to have given me so much thought.' A long and rather arduous pause followed.

'Oh, one other thing, Arthur. You sent out to Mr Critchett—do you remember?—the night you first came home. I think, too, after the first awful shock, when we were sitting in our bedroom, you actually referred to—to violent measures. You will promise me, I may perhaps at least ask that, you will promise me on your word of honour, for Alice's sake, if not for mine, to do nothing rash.'

'Yes, yes,' said Lawford, sinking lower even than he had supposed possible into the thin and lightless chill of ennui—'nothing rash.'

Sheila rose with a sigh only in part suppressed. 'I have not seen Mr Bethany again. I think, however, it would be better to let Harry know; I mean, dear, of your derangement. After all, he is one of the family—at least, of mine. He will not interfere. He would, perhaps quite naturally, be hurt if we did not take him into our confidence. Otherwise there is no pressing cause for haste, at least for another week or so. After that, I suppose, something will have to be done. Then there's Mr Wedderburn; wouldn't it be as well to let him know that at least for the present you are quite unable to think of returning to town? That, too, in time will have to be arranged, I suppose, if nothing happens meanwhile; I mean if things don't come right. And I do hope, Arthur, you will not set your mind too closely on what may only prove false hopes. This is all intensely painful to me; of course, to us both.'

Again Lawford, even though he did not turn to confront it, became conscious of the black veil turned towards him tentatively, speculatively, impenetrably.

'Yes,' he said, 'I'll write to Wedderburn; he's had his ups and downs too.'

'I always rather fancied so,' said Sheila reflectively, 'he looks rather a—a restless man. Oh, and then again,' she broke off quickly, 'there's the question of money. I suppose—it is only a conjecture—I suppose it would be better to do nothing in that direction just for the present. Ada has now gone to the Bank. Fifty pounds, Arthur; it is out of my own private account—do you think that will be enough, just, of course, for your PRESENT needs?'

'As a bribe, hush-money, or a thank-offering, Sheila?' murmured her husband wearily.

'I don't follow you,' replied the discreet voice from beneath the veil.

He did actually turn this time and glance steadily over his shoulder. 'How long are you going for? and where?'

'I proposed to go to my cousin's, Bettie Lovat's; that is, of course, if you have no objection. It's near; it will be a long-deferred visit; and she need know very little. And, of course, if for the least thing in the world you should want me, there I am within call, as it were. And you will write? We ARE acting for the best, Arthur?'

'So long as it is your best, Sheila.'

Sheila pondered. 'You think, you mean, they'll all say I ought to have stayed. Candidly, I can't see it in that light. Surely every experience of life proves that in intimate domestic matters, and especially in those between husband and wife, only the parties concerned have any means of judging what is best for them? It has been our experience at any rate: though I must in fairness confess that, outwardly at least, I haven't had much of that kind of thing to complain of.' Sheila paused again for a reply.

'What kind of thing?'

'Domestic experience, dear.'

The house was quiet. There was not a sound stirring in the still sunny road of orchards and discreet and drowsy villas. A long silence followed, immensely active and alert on the one side, almost morbidly lethargic so far as the stooping figure in front of the looking-glass was concerned. At last the last haunting question came in a kind of croak, as if only by a supreme effort could it be compelled to produce itself for consideration.

'And Alice, Sheila?'

'Alice, dear, of course goes with ME.'

'You realise,' he stirred uneasily, 'you realise it may be final.'

'My dear Arthur,' cried Sheila, 'it is surely, apart from mere delicacy, a parental obligation to screen the poor child from the shock. Could she be at such a time in any better keeping than her mother's? At present she only vaguely guesses. To know definitely that her father, infinitely worse than death, had—had—Oh, is it possible to realise anything in this awful cloud? It would kill her outright.'

Lawford made no stir. The quietest of raps came at the door. 'The money from the Bank, ma'am,' said a faint voice.

Sheila carefully opened the door a few inches. She laid the blue envelope on the dressing-table at her husband's elbow. 'You had better perhaps count it,' she said in a low voice—'forty in notes, the rest in gold,' and narrowed her eyes beneath her veil upon her husband's very peculiar method of forgetting his responsibilities.

'French?' she said with a nod. 'How very quaint.'

Lawford's eyes fell and rested gravely on the dingy page of Herbert's mean-looking bundle of print. A queer feeling of cold crept over him. 'Yes,' he said vaguely, 'French,' and hopelessly failed to fill in the silence that seemed like some rather sleek nocturnal creature quietly waiting to be fed.

Sheila swept softly towards the door. 'Well, Arthur, I think that is all. The servants will have gone by this evening. I have ordered a carriage for half-past twelve. Perhaps you would first write down anything that occurs to you to be necessary? Perhaps, too, it would be better if Dr Simon were told that we shall not need him any more, that you are thinking of a complete change of scene, a voyage. He is obviously useless. Besides, Mr Bethany, I think, is going to discuss a specialist with you. I have written him a little note, just briefly explaining. Shall I write to Dr Simon too?'

'You remember everything,' said Lawford, and it seemed to him it was a remark he had heard ages and ages ago. 'It's only this money, Sheila; will you please take that away?'

'Take it away?'

'I think, Sheila, if I do take a voyage I should almost prefer to work my passage. As for a mere "change of scene," that's quite uncostly.'

'It is only your face, Arthur,' said Sheila solemnly, 'that suggest these wicked stabs. Some day you will perhaps repent of every one.'

'It is possible, Sheila; we none of us stand still, you know. One rips open a lid sometimes and the wax face rots before one's eyes. Take back your blue envelope; and thank you for thinking of me. It's always the woman of the house that has the head.'

'I wish,' said Sheila almost pathetically, and yet with a faint quaver of resignation, 'I wish it could be said that the man of the house sometimes has the heart. Think it over, Arthur!'

Sheila, with her husband's luncheon tray, brought also her farewells. Lawford surveyed, not without a faint, shy stirring of incredulity, the superbly restrained presence. He stood before her dry-lipped, inarticulate, a schoolboy caught redhanded in the shabbiest of offences.

'It is your wish then that I go, Arthur?' she said pleadingly.

He handed her her money without a word.

'Very well, Arthur; if you won't take it,' she said. 'I should scarcely have thought this the occasion for mere pride.'

'The tenth,' she continued, as she squeezed the envelope into her purse, with only the least hardening of voice, 'although I daresay you have not troubled to remember it—the tenth will be the eighteenth anniversary of our wedding-day. It makes parting, however advisable, and though only for the few days we should think nothing of in happier circumstances, a little harder to bear. But there, all will come right. You will see things in a different light, perhaps. Words may wound, but time will heal.' But even as she now looked closely into his colourless sunken face some distant memory seemed to well up irresistibly—the memory of eyes just as ingenuous, and as unassuming that even in claiming her love had expressed only their stolid unworthiness.

'Did you know it? have you seen it?' she said, stooping forward a little. 'I believe in spite of all....' He gazed on solemnly, almost owlishly, out of his fading mask.

'Wait till Mr Bethany tells you; you will believe it perhaps from him.' He saw the grey-gloved hand a little reluctantly lifted towards him.

'Good-bye, Sheila,' he said, and turned mechanically back to the window.

She hesitated, listening to a small far-away voice that kept urging her with an almost frog-like pertinacity to do, to say something, and yet as stubbornly would not say what; and she was gone.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Raying and gleaming in the sunlight the hired landau drove up to the gate. Lawford, peeping between the blinds, looked down on the coachman, with reins hanging loosely from his red squat-thumbed hand, seated in his tight livery and indescribable hat on the faded cushions. One thing only was in his mind; and it was almost with an audible cry that he turned towards the figure that edged, white and trembling, into the chill room, to fling herself into his arms. 'Don't look at me,' he begged her, 'only remember, dearest, I would rather have died down there and been never seen again than have given you pain. Run—run, your mother's calling. Write to me, think of me; good-bye!'

He threw himself on the bed and lay there till evening—till the door had shut gently behind the last rat to leave the sinking ship. All the clearness, the calmness were gone again. Round and round in dizzy sickening flare and clatter his thoughts whirled. Contempt, fear, loathing, blasphemy, laughter, longing: there was no end. Death was no end. There was no meaning, no refuge, no hope, no possible peace. To give up was to go to perdition: to go forward was to go mad. And even madness—he sat up with trembling lips in the twilight—madness itself was only a state, only a state. You might be bereaved, and the pain and hopelessness of that would pass. You might be cast out, betrayed, deserted, and still be you, still find solitude lovely and in a brave face a friend. But madness!—it surged in on him with all the clearness and emptiness of a dream. And he sat quite still, his hand clutching the bedclothes, his head askew, waiting for the sound of footsteps, for the presences and the voices that have their thin-walled dwelling beneath the shallow crust of consciousness.

Inky blackness drifted up in wisps, in smoke before his eyes; he was powerless to move, to cry out. There was no room to turn; no air to breathe. And yet there was a low, continuous, never-varying stir as of an enormous wheel whirling in the gloom. Countless infinitesimal faces arched like glimmering pebbles the huge dim-coloured vault above his head. He heard a voice above the monstrous rustling of the wheel, clamouring, calling him back. He was hastening headlong, muttering to himself his own flat meaningless name, like a child repeating as he runs his errand. And then as if in a charmed cold pool he awoke and opened his eyes again on the gathering darkness of the great bedroom, and heard a quick, importunate, long-continued knocking on the door below, as of some one who had already knocked in vain.

Cramped and heavy-limbed, he felt his way across the room and lit a candle. He stood listening awhile: his eyes fixed on the door that hung a little open. All in the room seemed acutely fantastically still. The flame burned dim, misled in the sluggish air. He stole slowly to the door, looked out, and again listened. Again the knocking broke out, more impetuously and yet with a certain restraint and caution. Shielding the flame of his candle in the shell of his left hand, Lawford moved slowly, with chin uplifted, to the stairs. He bent forward a little, and stood motionless and drawn up, the pupils of his eyes slowly contracting and expanding as he gazed down into the carpeted vacant gloom; past the dim louring presence that had fallen back before him.

His mouth opened. 'Who's there?' at last he called.

'Thank God, thank God!' he heard Mr Bethany mutter. 'I mustn't call, Lawford,' came a hurried whisper as if the old gentleman were pressing his lips to speak through the letter-box. 'Come down and open the door; there's a good fellow! I've been knocking no end of a time.'

'Yes, I am coming,' said Lawford. He shut his mouth and held his breath, and stair by stair he descended, driving steadily before him the crouching, gloating menacing shape, darkly lifted up before him against the darkness, contending the way with him.

'Are you ill? Are you hurt? Has anything happened, Lawford?' came the anxious old voice again, striving in vain to be restrained.

'No, no,' muttered Lawford. 'I am coming; coming slowly.' He paused to breathe, his hands trembling, his hair lank with sweat, and still with eyes wide open he descended against the phantom lurking in the darkness—an adversary that, if he should but for one moment close his lids, he felt would master sanity and imagination with its evil. 'So long as you don't get in,' he heard himself muttering, 'so long as you don't get in, my friend!'

'What's that you're saying?' came up the muffled, querulous voice; 'I can't for the life of me hear, my boy.'

'Nothing, nothing,' came softly the answer from the foot of the stairs. 'I was only speaking to myself.'

Deliberately, with candle held rigidly on a level with his eyes, Lawford pushed forward a pace or two into the airless, empty drawing-room, and grasped the handle of the door. He gazed in awhile, a black oblique shadow flung across his face, his eyes fixed like an animal's, then drew the door steadily towards him. And suddenly some power that had held him tense seemed to fail. He thrust out his head, and, his face quivering with fear and loathing, spat defiance as if in a passion of triumph into the gloom.

Still muttering, he shut the door and turned the key. In another moment his light was gleaming out on the grey perturbed face and black narrow shoulders of his visitor.

'You gave me quite a fright,' said the old man almost angrily; 'have you hurt your foot, or something?'

'It was very dark,' said Lawford, 'down the stairs.'

'What!' said Mr Bethany still more angrily, blinking out of his unspectacled eyes; 'has she cut off the gas, then?'

'You got the note?' said Lawford, unmoved.

'Yes, yes; I got the note.... Gone?'

'Oh, yes; all gone. It was my choice. I preferred it so.'

Mr Bethany sat down on one of the hard old wooden chairs that stood on either side of the lofty hall, and breathing rather thickly, rested his hands on his knees. 'What's happened?' he inquired, looking up into the candle. 'I forgot my glasses, old fool that I am, and can't, my dear fellow, see you very plainly. But your voice—'

'I think,' said Lawford, 'I think it's beginning to come back.'

'What, the whole thing! Oh no, my dear, dear man; be frank with me; not the whole thing?'

'Yes,' said Lawford, 'the whole thing—very, very gradually, imperceptibly. I think even Sheila noticed. But I rather feel it than see it; that is all.... I'm cornering him.'

'Him?'

Lawford jerked his candle as if towards some definite goal. 'In time,' he said.

The two faces with the candle between them seemed as it were to gain light each from the other.

'Well, well,' said Mr Bethany, 'every man for himself, Lawford; it's the only way. But what's going to be done? We must be cautious; must think of—of the others?'

'Oh, that,' said Lawford; 'she's going to squeeze me out.'

'You've—squabbled? Oh, but my dear, honest old, HONEST old idiot, there are scores of families here in this parish, within a stone's throw, that squabble, wrangle, all but politely tear each other's eyes out, every day of their earthly lives. It's perfectly natural. Where should we poor old busybodies be else. Peace on earth we bring, and it's mainly between husband and wife.'

'Yes,' said Lawford, 'but you see, this was not our earthly life. It was between US.'

'Listen, listen to the dear mystic!' exclaimed the old creature scoffingly. 'What depths we're touching. Here's the first serious break of his lifetime, and he's gone stark staring transcendental. Ah well.' He paused and glanced quickly about him, with his curious bird-like poise of head. 'But you're not alone here?' he inquired suddenly; 'not absolutely alone?'

'Yes,' said Lawford. 'But there's plenty to think about—and read. I haven't thought or read for years.'

'No, nor I; after thirty, my dear boy, one merely annotates, and the book's called Life. Bless me, his solemn old voice is grinding epigrams out of even this poor old parochial barrel-organ. You don't suppose, you cannot be supposing you are the only serious person in the world? What's more, it's only skin deep.'

Lawford smiled. 'Skin deep. But think quietly over it; you'll see I'm done.'

'Come here,' said Mr Bethany. 'Where's the whiskey, where's the cigars? You shall smoke and drink, and I'll watch. If it weren't for a pitiful old stomach, I'd join you. Come on!' He led the way into the dining-room.

He looked sparer, more wizened and sinewy than ever as he stooped to open the sideboard. 'Where on earth do they keep everything?' he was muttering to himself.

Lawford put the candlestick down on the table. 'There's only one thing,' he said, watching his visitor's rummaging; 'what precisely do you think they will do with me?'

'Look here, Lawford,' snapped Mr Bethany; 'I've come round here, hooting through your letter-box, to tally sense, not sentiment. Why has your wife deserted you? Without a servant, without a single—It's perfectly monstrous.'

'On my word of honour, I prefer it so. I couldn't have gone on. Alone I all but forget this—this lupus. Every turn of her little finger reminded me of it. We are all of us alone, whether we know it or not; you said so yourself. And it's better to realize it stark and unconfused. Besides, you have no idea what—what odd things.... There may be; there IS something on the other side. I'll win through to that.'

Mr Bethany had been listening attentively. He scrambled up from his knees with a half-empty syphon of sodawater. 'See here, Lawford,' he said; 'if you really want to know what's your most insidious and most dangerous symptom just now, it is spiritual pride. You've won what you think a domestic victory; and you can scarcely bear the splendour. Oh, you may shrug! Pray, what IS this "other side" which the superior double-faced creature's going to win through to now?' He rapped it out almost bitterly, almost contemptuously.

Lawford hardly heard the question. Before his eyes had suddenly arisen the peace, the friendly unquestioning stillness, the thunderous lullaby old as the grave. 'It's only a fancy. It seemed I could begin again.'

'Well, look here,' said Mr Bethany, his whole face suddenly lined and grey with age. 'You can't. It's the one solitary thing I've got to say, as I've said it to myself morn, noon, and night these scores of years. You can't begin again; it's all a delusion and a snare. You say we're alone. So we are. The world's a dream, a stage, a mirage, a rack, call it what you will—but YOU don't change, YOU'RE no illusion. There's no crying off for YOU no ravelling out, no clean leaves. You've got this—this trouble, this affliction—my dear, dear fellow what shall I say to tell you how I grieve and groan for you oh yes, and actually laughed, I confess it, a vile hysterical laughter, to think of it. You've got this almost intolerable burden to bear; it's come like a thief in the night; but bear it you must, and ALONE! They say death's a going to bed; I doubt it; but anyhow life's a long undressing. We came in puling and naked, and every stitch must come off before we get out again. We must stand on our feet in all our Rabelaisian nakedness, and watch the world fade. Well then, and not another word of sense shall you worm out of my worn-out old brains after today—all I say is, don't give in! Why, if you stood here now, freed from this devilish disguise, the old, fat, sluggish fellow that sat and yawned his head off under my eyes in his pew the Sunday before last, if I know anything about human nature I'd say it to your face, and a fig for your vanity and resignation—your last state would be worse than the first. There!'

He bunched up a big white handkerchief and mopped it over his head. 'That's done,' he said, 'and we won't go back. What I want to know now is what are you going to do? Where are you sleeping? What are you going to think about? I'll stay—yes, yes, that's what it must be: I must stay. And I detest strange beds. I'll stay, you SHAN'T be alone. Do you hear me, Lawford?—you SHAN'T be alone!'

Lawford gazed gravely. 'There is just one little thing I want to ask you before you go. I've wormed out an extraordinary old French book; and—just as you say—to pass the time, I've been having a shot at translating it. But I'm frightfully rusty; it's old French; would you mind having a look?'

Mr Bethany blinked and listened. He tried for the twentieth time to judge his friend's eyes, to gain as best he could some sustained and unobserved glance at this baffling face. 'Where is your precious French book?' he said irritably.

'It's upstairs.'

'Fire away, then!' Lawford rose and glanced about the room. 'What, no light there either?' snapped Mr Bethany. 'Take this; I don't mind the dark. There'll be plenty of that for me soon.'

Lawford hesitated at the door, looking rather strangely back. 'No,' he said, 'there are matches upstairs.' He shut the door after him. The darkness seemed cold and still as water. He went slowly up, with eyes fixed wide on the floating luminous gloom, and out of memory seemed to gather, as faintly as in the darkness which they had exorcised for him, the strange pitiful eyes of the night before. And as he mounted a chill, terrible, physical peace seemed to steal over him.

Mr Bethany was sitting as he had left him, looking steadily on the floor, when Lawford returned. He flattened out the book on the table with a sniff of impatience. And dragging the candle nearer, and stooping his nose close to the fusty print, he began to read.

'Was this in the house?' he inquired presently.

'No,' said Lawford; 'it was lent to me by a friend—Herbert.'

'H'm! don't know him. Anyhow, precious poor stuff this is. This Sabathier, whoever he is, seems to be a kind of clap-trap eighteenth-century adventurer who thought the world would be better off, apparently, for a long account of all his sentimental amours. Rousseau, with a touch of Don Quixote in his composition, and an echo of that prince of bogies, Poe! What, in the name of wonder, induced you to fix on this for your holiday reading?'

'Sabathier's alive, isn't he?'

'I never said he wasn't. He's a good deal too much alive for my old wits, with his Mam'selle This and Madame the Other; interesting enough, perhaps, for the professional literary nose with a taste for patchouli.'

'Yet I suppose even that is not a very rare character?' Mr Bethany peered up from the dingy book at his ingenuous questioner. 'I should say decidedly that the fellow was a very rare character, so long as by rare you don't mean good. It's one of the dullest stupidities of the present day, my dear fellow, to dote on a man simply because he's different from the rest of us. Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels. From what I can gather in just these few pages this Sabathier appears to have been an amorous, adventurous, emotional Frenchman, who went to the dogs as easily and as rapidly as his own nature and his period allowed. And I should say, Lawford, that he made precious bad reading for a poor old troubled hermit like yourself at the present moment.'

'There's a portrait of him a few pages back.'

Mr Bethany, with some little impatience, turned back to the engraving. '"Nicholas de Sabathier,"'s he muttered. '"De," indeed!' He poked in at the foxy print with narrowed eyes. 'I don't deny it's a striking, even perhaps, a rather taking face. I don't deny it.' He gazed on with an even more acute concentration, and looked up sharply. 'Look here, Lawford, what in the name of wonder—what trick are you playing on me now?'

'Trick?' said Lawford; and the world fell with the tiniest plash in the silence, like a vivid little float upon the surface of a shadowy pool.

The old face flushed. 'What conceivable bearing, I say, has this dead and gone old roue on us now?'

'You don't think, then, you see any resemblance—ANY resemblance at all?'

'Resemblance?' repeated Mr Bethany in a flat voice, and without raising his face again to meet Lawford's direct scrutiny. 'Resemblance to whom?'

'To me? To me, as I am?'

'But even, my dear fellow (forgive my dull old brains!), even if there was just the faintest superficial suggestion of—of that; what then?'

'Why,' said Lawford, 'he's buried in Widderstone.'

'Buried in Widderstone?' The keen childlike blue eyes looked almost stealthily up across the book; the old man sat without speaking, so still that it might even be supposed he himself was listening for a quiet distant footfall.

'He is buried in the grave beside which I fell asleep,' said Lawford; 'all green and still and broken,' he added faintly. 'You remember,' he went on in a repressed voice—'you remember you asked me if there was anybody else in sight, any eavesdropper? You don't think—him?'

Mr. Bethany pushed the book a few inches away from him. 'Who, did you say—who was it you said put the thing into your head? A queer friend surely?' he paused helplessly. 'And how, pray, do you know,' he began again more firmly, 'even if there is a Sabathier buried at Widderstone, how do you know it is this Sabathier? It's not, I think,' he added boldly, 'a very uncommon name; with two b's at any rate. Whereabouts is the grave?'

'Quite down at the bottom, under the trees. And the little seat I told you of is there, too, where I fell asleep. You see,' he explained, 'the grave's almost isolated; I suppose because he killed himself.'

Mr Bethany clasped his knuckled fingers on the tablecloth. 'It's no good,' he concluded after a long pause; 'the fellow's got up into my head. I can't think him out. We must thrash it out quietly in the morning with the blessed sun at the window; not this farthing dip. To me the whole idea is as revolting as it is incredible. Why, above a century—no, no! And on the other hand, how easily one's fancy builds! A few straws and there's a nest and squawking fledglings, all complete. Is that why—is that why that good, practical wife of yours and all your faithful household have absconded? Does it'—he threw up his head as if towards the house above them—'does it REEK with him?'

Lawford shook his head. 'She hasn't seen him: not—not apart. I haven't told her.'

Mr Bethany tossed the hugger-mugger of pamphlets across the table. 'Then, for simple sanity's sake, don't. Hide it; burn it; put the thing completely out of your mind. A friend! Who, where is this wonderful friend?'

'Not very far from Widderstone. He lives—practically alone.'

'And all that stumbling and muttering on the stairs?' he leant forward almost threateningly. 'There isn't anybody here, Lawford?'

'Oh, no,' said Lawford. 'We are practically alone with this, you know,' he pointed to the book, and smiled frankly, however faintly.

Again Mr Bethany sank into a fixed yet uneasy reverie, and again shook himself and raised his eyes.

'Well then,' he said, in a voice all but morose in its fretfullness, 'what I suggest is that first you keep quiet here; and next, that you write and get your wife back. You say you are better. I think you said she herself noticed a slight improvement. Isn't it just exactly as I foresaw? And yet she's gone! But that's not our business. Get her back. And don't for a single instant waste a thought on the other; not for a single instant, I implore you, Lawford. And in a week the whole thing will be no more than a dreary, preposterous dream.... You don't answer me!' he cried impulsively.

'But can one so easily forget a dream like this?'

'You don't speak out, Lawford; you mean SHE won't.'

'It must at least seem to have been in part of my own seeking, or contriving; or at any rate—she said it—of my own hereditary or unconscious deserving.'

'She said that!' Mr Bethany sat back. 'I see, I see,' he said. 'I'm nothing but a fumbling old meddler. And there was I, not ten minutes ago, preaching for all I was worth on a text I knew nothing about. God bless me, Lawford, how long we take a-learning. I'll say no more. But what an illusion. To think this—this—he laid a long lean hand at arm's length flat upon the table towards his friend—'to think this is our old jog-trot Arthur Lawford! From henceforth I throw you over, you old wolf in sheep's wool. I wash my hands of you. And now where am I going to sleep?'

He covered up his age and weariness for an instant with a small crooked hand.

Lawford took a deep breath. 'You're going, old friend, to sleep at home. And I—I'm going to give you my arm to the Vicarage gate. Here I am, immeasurably relieved, fitter than I've been since I was a dolt of a schoolboy. On my word of honour: I can't say why, but I am. I don't care THAT, vicar, honestly—puffed up with spiritual pride. If a man can't sleep with pride for a bed-fellow, well, he'd better try elsewhere. It's no good; I'm as stubborn as a mule; that's at least a relic of the old Adam. I care no more,' he raised his voice firmly and gravely—'I don't care a jot for solitude, not a jot for all the ghosts of all the catacombs!'

Mr. Bethany listened, grimly pursed up his lips. 'Not a jot for all the ghosts of all the catechisms!' he muttered. 'Nor the devil himself, I suppose?' He turned once more to glance sharply in the direction of the face he could so dimly—and of set purpose—discern; and without a word trotted off into the hall. Lawford followed with the candle.

''Pon my word, you haven't had a mouthful of supper. Let me forage; just a quarter of an hour, eh?'

'Not me,' said Mr Bethany; 'if you won't have me, home I go. I refuse to encourage this miserable grass-widowering. What WOULD they say? What would the busybodies say? Ghouls and graves and shocking mysteries—Selina! Sister Anne! Come on.'

He shuffled on his hat and caught firm hold of his knobbed umbrella. 'Better not leave a candle,' he said.

Lawford blew out the candle.

'What? What?' called the old man suddenly. But no voice had spoken.

A thin trickle of light from the lamp in the street stuck up through the fanlight as, with a smile that could be described neither as mischievous, saturnine, nor vindictive, and was yet faintly suggestive of all three, Lawford quietly opened the drawing-room door and put down the candlestick on the floor within.

'What on earth, my good man, are you fumbling after now?' came the almost fretful question from under the echoing porch.

'Coming, coming,' said Lawford, and slammed the door behind them.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The first faint streaks of dawn were silvering across the stars when Lawford again let himself into his deserted house. He stumbled down to the pantry and cut himself a crust of bread and cheese, and ate it, sitting on the table, watching the leafy eastern sky through the painted bars of the area window. He munched on, hungry and tired. His night walk had cooled head and heart. Having obstinately refused Mr Bethany's invitation to sleep at the Vicarage, he had sat down on an old low wall, and watched until his light had shone out at his bedroom window. Then he had simply wandered on, past rustling glimmering gardens, under the great timbers of yellowing elms, hardly thinking, hardly aware of himself except as in a far-away vision of a sluggish insignificant creature struggling across the tossed-up crust of an old, incomprehensible world.